


Chasing the Sun

by loudspeakr



Category: Rhett & Link
Genre: (not quite the tag i was looking for but i'll take it), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Feels, Lost Boys, Mild Sexual Content, Multi, Road Trips, Starting Over, Workplace Tensions
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-04
Updated: 2018-03-11
Packaged: 2018-09-21 23:29:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9571712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loudspeakr/pseuds/loudspeakr
Summary: On the brink of an early mid-life crisis, an uninspired Link decides to pursue the life his younger self had always dreamed of.And when his search brings him to the other side of the country, he finds it exactly where he left it.





	1. Alarms

**Author's Note:**

> So here's a quick rundown: This fic is essentially the result of me wondering what might've happened if R and L instead went their separate ways after high school. The wives aren't their wives, the kids don't exist, and neither does MythEnt or GMM or any of it. Canon divergence. A cool way to say the story's there but I've screwed around with it.
> 
> Oh, and I'm not great at updating - so if you'd prefer to wait for the whole thing to be finished before you dive in, that's fair. But also, don't hold your breath. (I promise I'm doing my best though.)
> 
> Anyway, thanks for being here, and hope you enjoy!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout out to [Sarah](https://archiveofourown.org/users/heatgeneratingtechniques/pseuds/heatgeneratingtechniques/works) for helping me with this and for encouraging me to write it in the first place. You're a star, and I am endlessly thankful.

“It’s not working out.”

For a weekday, the diner is surprisingly busy. Every booth filled with patrons, they’d had to wait for a table, which was a rarity. Link kept his mind occupied with the prospect of sinking his teeth into another bacon cheeseburger, and when a table was finally vacated, the smell of bacon wafting through the swinging door of the kitchen had him already confirming his order.

“We gave it our best, though. We had some fun.”

The waitress is new, he notices. Her face isn’t ringing any bells, and he’s usually really good at remembering faces. In a small town like this, every face feels as plain and unextraordinary as the snow that falls every winter. His eyes trail down to track the sway of her hips in her tight-fitting server’s skirt.

“Sometimes people just grow apart, you know?”

The waitress stops at a table, smiling sweetly at the male customer who had waved her down. They exchange a few words, and she tosses her head back in polite laughter before moving in to pour out some coffee. Then she’s off again before he can say another word, coffee pot held high for the room to see.

“I do love you – that’s not the issue here. I just… Link?”

“Yes,” he says automatically, his attention snapping back to the woman sitting with him.

Christy purses her lips, a clear giveaway of her waning patience, her expression saying everything he needs to know without hearing it. _We’re breaking up, aren’t we?_ He voices his thought to her, pushing cold fries around his plate, and she snaps.

“Yes! God, Link! That’s all I’ve been trying to say here! Where have you been?”

He sighs. Here it comes. “I'm right here.”

“No, I mean...” She leans forward, her arms reaching across the table to find his. Link meets her halfway. “ _Where_ have you been? Because it hasn’t been with me for the longest time.”

She’s right, but the accusation stings regardless. It’s not as if he doesn’t love her. Christy is perfect. Smart and kind and thoughtful, really funny when she wants to be. She is the apple of this town’s eye, and Link was lucky to catch her when she fell. He knew it from day one, and nobody has ever let him forget.

“You’ve been so distant, sad.” The frown she wears doesn’t sit well on her face, and it makes Link’s chest hurt. “I don’t know how to help you anymore, Link.”

She isn’t the only one.

“I think we need some time, you know, to get to know ourselves. To see who we are without…”

Link has heard this speech before. From a TV show, a movie, from a long time ago perhaps. He knows she just wants out, and he _knows_ he should protest, grab her by the arms and hold her and beg her not to leave him, but instead he watches as she slides out from her side of the booth and gathers her things.

The setting sunlight hits her where she stands, and Christy is glorious in its glow. Link could love her like she deserves. He could give her a comfortable life, the children she always speaks of, even a wedding band around her waiting finger. God knows it’s what she wants. God knows it’s what this town wants. _God knows…_

“Christy,” he whispers, and Christy’s eyes light up expectantly. But then he falls into the dark of her pupils and his words fail him, answering her with only silence. She steels herself before his very eyes.

“You can come by to get your things, Link.” Her voice is hard now, and Link can see the walls being built even as she speaks. “But after that, you need to be gone.”

 

* * *

 

_It always starts off the same._

_He’s swimming, diving into murky water that – against his usually better judgement – only invites him further down into the darkness. He’s never been fond of the dark, and being underwater is no exception. But he gives into these urges, however strange they may be, letting them pull him downwards until the light dancing on the surface above him has faded with the depths that embrace him now._

_For some reason, he trusts. He trusts that whatever this instinct he has here will keep him safe, that the air in his lungs will hold until he is ready, that he’ll eventually find what it is that has beckoned him here in the first place._

_Here he is alone, and here he is free, despite the mounting pressure pressing down on his chest._

_And then there’ll be a flicker. Of what, he isn’t ever sure. But he swears he sees green, a different green, vibrant, electric, a glittering green that darts past him every time._

_It would make no sense if he were to apply any kind of logic to this: the lack of light around him would surely render this observation impossible._

_However it works, here in his underwater world of make-believe and fantasy, whenever he sees that familiar flash of green, a current rushes through him and the air that kept him calm and alive somehow dissipates, leaving him to gasp for breath that just won’t come._

 

* * *

 

Link blinks once, twice, before turning on his side, arm outstretched, reaching for… It takes him a second to realise he’s alone, his hand finding the stiff sheets of his bed rather than Christy’s soft middle. Then it occurs to him.

He’s back in his own apartment after having stumbled in late last night, the room cast in shadow, dull sunlight filtering through the blinds. The bottle of whiskey he had drowned himself in last night is on its side on the bedside table, the irksome sight of it spilt and empty knocking a little sense into him. He jerks himself upright, the move giving him momentary whiplash, before he forces himself up to get the paper towels. They’re in the kitchenette just a few feet from his bed, and he steps over discarded clothes to get to them. Such is the beauty of a studio apartment with its limited space and bleak décor.

He pads across the scratchy carpet, his bloodshot eyes squinting through what little light does illuminate the room, and it’s only then that Link realises the sorry state of his life.

His belongings are in boxes in the corner. His cupboards are bare of anything edible. Even the apartment around him feels foreign somehow, unsettling for a place that should feel like home to him. Looking around, the walls remain bare, devoid of any colour, his couch still here from the previous tenants. Fuck, only his bed feels like _something_ , probably because it’s the only bed he’s ever had in his life, its frame having been dismantled and reassembled far too many times in its life with him.

Serves him right, he supposes. He's spent the past few months living in someone else's life and neglecting his own. What else did he expect?

Now that he’s really thinking about it, Link doesn’t remember the last time he woke alone. Christy had been his since college. They’d dived headfirst into a relationship – skimming over the friendship stage – and moved in together mere months after they first got together.

To go from boyhood to adulthood stuck under the shadow of another person is a crazy notion, isn’t it? He thinks this without a shred of resentment, that he had been living in Christy’s shadow, because it is entirely true. Christy shines here, with her adoring family and aspiring career as an educator. She’s well-liked with good connections, always networking and making new friends. It was always Christy who dreamed of raising children here, of buying a house on the outskirts of town with a tyre swing in the backyard.

As for Link… Well, he dreamt of Christy and nothing more. He isn’t too sure when his dreams of her stopped.

He knows there was a time when he’d been so in love with her. She used to be the entire world to him. A younger Link had been sure they would grow old together, wrinkled hands held between two rocking chairs on a creaky porch.

What he couldn’t understand was why she didn’t want more. She could have anything, go anywhere, yet she remained here. A humble country girl with endless potential, and she was deciding to waste it on this country town filled with tired, closed-minded people.

Like Christy, there was a time when North Carolina had been enough for Link. He had wasted summers kicking up dust in trucks that should have been retired years before he even got his hands on them, splashing water in rivers that had many a time almost taken his life. He’d explored every nook and cranny of this place, of decrepit buildings and underground sewers and overgrown paddocks.

He’d had his fill a long time ago. Rhett had the right idea, leaving when he did.

 _Rhett._ There’s a name Link hasn’t thought about in years, the sound of it bringing forth a warm rush of nostalgia, like coming home to the smell of his Nanny’s fried chicken. It feels funny on his tongue when he says it aloud to his apartment, as if to ask if it remembered him. It wouldn’t; Rhett never came here. Rhett had left long before Link even stepped foot in this place.

The last Link had seen of Rhett was on their graduation day at Harnett Central High School. What should’ve been a day for celebration and newfound freedom was instead marred by the simple fact that Rhett would be moving across the country to go to college in California.

Draped in his gown, Link spent the day walking on eggshells around his best friend, knowing his room back home had already been packed up, ready to go. It was Rhett’s father who was to blame, he knew. The man had long been an advocate for his son to take an engineering degree instead of going to film school like he and Link always wanted. Even so, it proved difficult for Link to keep his anger leashed with Rhett acting like everything was fine, and eventually he snapped.

Link doesn’t remember what was said exactly, only remembers the hurt flashing across Rhett’s face when he let the words loose. Rhett had never yelled at him before, but that day had been one of both firsts and lasts for the two of them. With his temper still simmering and his resolve unraveling, Link watched his lifelong friend be driven into the distance, taking with him Link’s entire childhood and the dreams they’d conjured up together.

The thought now spurs on another, so once Link has sopped up the last of the spilt alcohol, he makes his way to the wardrobe. Dust motes cling to old clothes and outdated shoes line the floor beneath, but Link ignores this as he delves into the back corner of the top shelf, looking for his old shoebox of memories.

It was a balmy summer’s night when he and Rhett stood alone as boys in an abandoned cow pasture, pressing their slashed palms to a single piece of paper. Despite the drama of its presentation, what was written on the paper still holds great importance to him now: they both promised, swore that they would do great things together. Though the _together_ clause was now void, the premise remained the same.

Link had vowed to do great things with his life. When had he given up on that?

He doesn’t know why he did what he did, but Link insisted to Rhett that he’d lost their pact only a few years after making it. Maybe it was because they were teenagers, and the fact that they’d made a pact at all had made him cringe at its ‘uncool’ sentimentality. In any case, Rhett hadn’t seemed to care at the time, shrugging it off and moving onto a pursuit of girls that didn’t want him back.

In any case, Link finds their old blood oath at the bottom of the crumpled box, weathered and worn with time. He unfolds it as if it has the fragility of an ancient artefact and lays it carefully on the ground to look over, marvelling over his old handwriting and the feeling of seeing Rhett’s again.

His fourteen-year-old self had kept faith that he’d one day be living his dreams. Maybe it’s about time for him to do just that. Maybe it’s time…

Slipping the oath back into his wallet, Link reaches for his phone and dials. The tone rings, seconds passing, and then –

“Ma? Hey, it’s Link. I miss you too, but listen… I’m gonna need the truck back, okay?” His mouth is dry as he says it, but the anticipation thrumming in his chest pushes him forward. “Because I’m moving, Ma. I’m moving to California.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been wanting to try my hand at writing a serial fic for the longest time. The first version of this particular idea happened all the way in September 2016, and I've been chipping away at it ever since, bit by bit, forever finding roadblocks, until finally I managed to break through whatever I'd been stuck on.
> 
> The idea is to hopefully post a chapter at least once every two weeks - ideally once a week, but no promises considering my past track record, heh. In any case, I hope you'll stick this one out with me.


	2. The Comfort Invested

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ha, so much for "every two weeks". Oh well. At least I'm here, and so are you.
> 
> Thanks to my lovely [missingparentheses](https://archiveofourown.org/users/missingparentheses/works) for helping me out with this chapter. You're brilliant, and I can only hope your brilliance is rubbing off on me through the sheer force of intercontinental friendship.

It makes him feel a little pathetic, seeing everything he owns fitting neatly into the tray of a pick-up truck. Link isn’t one to hoard, not at all, but surely in all of his twenty-six years of life, he would’ve acquired more than this meagre collection. At least it had been a quick process, the going back and forth only taking almost an hour before he was done.

But as efficient as he’d been, working under the watchful, worried eye of his mother hadn’t helped ease the anxiety he was doing so well at ignoring for the moment. Sue was always one to volunteer her help, but this time Link told her a firm _no_. This was something he needed to do on his own, and though he knew she would do anything he asked of her, the thought of her disappointment left a bad taste in his mouth.

After all, he would be leaving her for the first time, _really_ leaving her. Even college had only been a few towns over, and he dutifully came home every weekend with a bag full of dirty laundry and endless gratitude toward her for washing it every time without complaint.

With his parents divorcing at age two, Link’s mama had played the role of his best friend until he grew old enough to find his own. She worked for them both, cooked and cleaned for them both, supported the two of them until his stepdad Jimmy had come along to take over the reins. For an only child to a single parent, Link had had it pretty good.

The guilt of leaving her behind bites at him when she finally approaches him in the driveway.

“Promise me you’ll phone home when you get there,” she says into his jacket, hugging Link tightly, her voice muffled against his shoulder. “And every night in between.”

“‘Course, Ma.” His heart squeezed at the tremble in her voice. “You know you’re my one and only.”

Sue pulls away at this, cupping her son’s cheeks in her hands. “Are you sure, Link? Are you sure there’s no hope for the two of you?”

As was Christy’s habit, she’d had Sue wrapped around her finger. After all, she made for the perfect prospective daughter-in-law, and there’d been many times when Link would catch the two of them making plans to go shopping or to have coffee. He didn’t know how many times they actually followed through with their outings, but they seemed to have a good relationship nonetheless.

“Yeah, Ma. I’m sorry – I know you liked her.”

“It’s all right, baby. I like you a lot more.” The smile on her face pulls a chuckle out of him. “I trust that you’re making the right decision. Just be safe, ya hear?”

The look on her face, dazed and forlorn, as he watches her shrink in his rear-view mirror is almost enough to make him turn this dang truck around and forget the whole thing.

But of course, there’s no going back. He’s really doing this. And Link is nothing if not stubborn and persistent.

After today, North Carolina will no longer be his home. He’ll come back one day to visit – of course he will. He’ll come back with a successful career and the love of his life on his arm, maybe a couple of kids to make his ma proud. Today’s the beginning of his new life. The thought sends a chill running through him, a complex tangle of nerves and anticipation.

But why California? Link had uttered the name before he had a chance to think about it – why? His whole life, Link has never been one for the beach. Or for summer. Or the sun in general. Link was the type to flourish in winter, in a whistling wind that bit at his ears whenever he forgot his earmuffs at home. Link liked fireplaces and hot chocolates and big, clunky boots that crushed the snow wherever he trod. And California – in all his dealings with it in the past – was a place of eternal sunshine.

Perhaps that’s what Link needs, though. After a lifetime of winter – a cold that has followed him since he became his own man – it might be good to feel warmth again. The sun must head west for some good reason. Maybe there’ll be something for him that way, too.

God, he needs a coffee.

An early Saturday morning is making for quiet roads, and Link couldn’t be any more grateful. He pulls off the main street, heading for the nearest gas station. The last thing he needs is to be held up, open to interrogation by passers-by who think they’re entitled to the finer details of his life. Not that he isn’t expecting it: a truck full of personal belongings would beg questions out of him as well.

Things look good from the onset when Link pulls into the gas station. The parking lot is empty, and every pump hangs unused at its terminal. He slides the truck into the closest spot to the door, slamming his closed, and heads straight in. The attendant – some teenage kid he’s thankfully never met before in his life – is eyeing him from behind the counter, as if Link is the adolescent here, but he ignores the attention for the shelf of snacks. Taking his pick of some chips and a box of Cheerios to snack on, he tosses the selection into the basket he’d picked up near the door before heading to the coffee drip machine at the back.

“Fuck, shit, _dang_ _it_!”

Link rounds the corner to find a girl, her slender frame swallowed up in clothes that hang from her body, kicking at the bench that houses the machine. Link lunges forward to save his potential beverage.

“Hey, hey, quit that!” Prying her away, he can see now that the pot is empty, red lights flashing steadily at him. Not a drop is being dispensed.

“I just need some fuckin’ coffee, okay?” She shoots him a glare, and Link swallows down the urge to cower from a girl.

“Yeah, well, so do I. And I think you broke it. Congratulations.”

“Ugh, _great_.”

The girl can’t be any older than eighteen, her features startling against the anger in her eyes. He’s not sexist – a _misogynist_ , not at all – but living in a country town can instil some pretty unsavoury qualities in anyone. Like wanting to belittle a total stranger in the middle of the store _just because she’s a woman_. No, Link’s better than that. He’s a gentleman, thanks to his mama’s doing. So he takes a deep breath, about to respond in a calm, adult manner, when he spots two duffel bags piled in a heap at her feet.

“Hey, are you–?” He’s talking before thinking, something he makes a habit of not doing anymore. It used to get him in all kinds of trouble when he was a younger man with a bigger bravado. “Do you need help getting somewhere?”

The girl narrows her eyes, sizing him up and down. He’s not expecting a serious answer – maybe a sarcastic quip – but she surprises him. “Yeah, I do – why? Where ya headed?”

“What? You ever heard of stranger danger? What if I just wanted to kidnap you?”

A sharp giggle answers him. “A kidnapper wouldn’t say that kind of shit in the first place. Uh, I’m going west. _The Golden State_ , as they say.”

“How old are you?”

“Eighteen.” So he was right.

The girl doesn’t wait for him to respond, instead turning away to face up to the broken coffee machine once more. She’s feisty – he can see that already. It would take a lot of guts to run away from home (because that is one-hundred-percent, without-a-doubt what she’s doing), and despite his head telling him he should call for her parents, get them to pick her up and take her home to ground her, he decides against it. After all, as someone who’s been living on autopilot for the better part of his adulthood so far, he could probably use a little more of that, of the spontaneity and rebellion.

And besides, she’s technically an adult, and there’s no way he’s ready to drive across the entire country all by himself. Just thinking about going all that way with only his own mind for company is already making him anxious.

“Tell ya what,” and he runs his fingertips over his chin in what he hopes looks like something a grown-up would do. “Since I’m also headin’ to California, if you can get me a cup of coffee, I’ll give you a ride.”

The girl shoots a look at him over her shoulder, setting her paper cup down on the counter. Her eyebrows arch at the proposal. “Deal. Wait for me outside.” And she reaches for Link’s basket of snacks.

Something about her demeanour makes him stay his confusion, so he hands over his shopping and obeys, leaving her to it. It should make him feel a little more pathetic, this power imbalance, his authority already slipping away. But she has a confidence he’s never seen in anyone before, a ferocity that doesn’t match the years under her proverbial belt. And Link’s a _gentleman_ , and women can do anything and whatever they want – after all, just look at his ma.

He’s still a little awestruck when the girl emerges from the building with two bags full of snacks, some of which he doesn’t recall picking up for himself, and her own bags slung over her shoulders. Link takes the grocery bag being handed to him as she makes her way to the passenger side.

“So where’s the coffee?”

On cue, he hears the door swing open behind him, and the attendant – that teenage punk – rushes out with a tray holding four cups of coffee, panting and flustered. There’s no missing the deep blush that warms his face now, his profuse apologies being swept aside by disinterest on the girl’s part. Shoving her bags into the back of the truck, she takes his offering and mutters a flippant ‘thanks’ before jumping in and slamming the door.

The boy disappears back inside, and it’s only then that Link feels comfortable enough to ask what happened.

“Don’t worry about it,” she says, a faint scowl still on her face from what he can see through the curtain of her blonde hair. “I have a pull. Let’s just leave it at that.”

Link takes his first sip of bitter caffeine and hums his approval, already feeling his body awaken under its influence.

“Oh, hey, forgot – I’m Link. Short for Charles Lincoln.” He puts out a hand, and when she doesn’t take it, he takes another swig of black coffee. “I should probably know your name if we’re gonna be stuck together for the next couple days.”

She doesn’t bother returning Link’s eye contact, instead pulling her own slender leg up onto the seat to rest her chin on. Her eyes look out the window at the highway that waits for them.

“Stevie. My name’s Stevie.”

 

* * *

 

When Link was five years old, he suffered from night terrors. The dreams themselves were inaccessible as soon as he woke, details fading under the light of consciousness, but he’d know he had one from the rasp in his throat and the dried salt on his cheeks.

The psychologist had told them it was something Link would simply grow out of, saying he was not to be woken during one of these episodes, that doing so could disorient him to the point of psychological damage. But with Sue being who she was, she settled for holding him, feeling the tremors as they wracked violently through her son, taking in the wails he would let out trapped in his personal nightmare.

As time passed, so did the bad dreams. The casual trauma and revelation that came with growing up eventually replaced the anxiety that imaginary monsters had once inflicted, and it was years later – when Link was well into his twenties – that the underwater pursuits became his new unconscious reality.

It occurs to him nowadays that perhaps his recurring dream in the depths is a new iteration of his childhood problem. Its meaning still eludes him, however, and his search for an interpretation that makes sense now borders on obsession. He’s asked friends, consulted books, searched whatever websites he could find for answers that have no real standing in the planes of logic and reason. And whatever he did find never really fit.

Now, stuck in a car, it's all Link's mind has had to focus on. For two days straight, he’s only watched the odometer click over with each passing mile, watched the roadside change from the rolling hills of North Carolina to the vast plains of the desert states. He won’t lie: despite the beauty of his surroundings, he’s utterly drained. Something that once promised excitement was fast becoming something else entirely. His knee aches after hours of acceleration, his eyes have tired from watching tarmac fly under his car, his fingers are strained from having been curled around a steering wheel for hours on end.

Despite the discomfort, however, Link powers through. He drives for six hours straight, naps for one, and then wakes to hit the road for another four hours or so. They pull over at motels with itchy blankets and fluorescent lights that flash at them as they enter their respective rooms for the night. And then they get up at the crack of dawn the next day to do it all over again.

All the while, his travelling companion remains as elusive and indifferent as ever. Stevie seems content keeping to herself, which is something Link can respect. But he throws out quips every now and then to spark an interaction of any kind – to no avail. With her eyes seemingly stuck on the scenery, he senses they haven’t yet broken the ice, not even after her impressive display at first meeting. Her stoic exterior is proving to be more than a little resistant to his attempts at socialising, but that doesn’t deter him from trying.

So at the mention of his dream – a last resort of a topic, Link admits – he feels Stevie’s gaze redirect and settle on him. And he takes it – the rare gift of her attention, however much of it he can get – and runs with it.

“And then I can’t breathe, and then nothing. I don’t know what that is. Do you? You ever had a dream like that?”

Stevie has her eyes closed when Link chances a look at her, her forehead just a touch furrowed as she absorbs his words. Through the fall of her hair, he can hear her drawing in breath, slowly, before filtering the air out again. She does it once more, the sound crawling under Link’s skin, as he waits for her long-awaited response.

“Well?” He presses, and he hears her mutter something, the words too low for his ears to pick up over the roar of the engine. “What was that?”

“I _said_ , you fuckin’ talk too much.”

And though he was kind of waiting for it, for her to spit back at him with typical adolescent scorn, it’s still enough to make him snap. “And you don’t speak at all! Why the fuck are you even here?”

If his hands weren’t wound around the wheel, he would've clapped one over his mouth. So much for a gentleman – he could practically feel Sue thwacking him over the head.

He’s ready to welcome the uneasy quiet back into the truck after his outburst when Stevie surprises him yet again. As if he hadn’t yelled at all, she asks, “You wanna see something?”

Link’s nodding before he can digest the odd turn of events. He waits as she dives into one of the duffel bags in the footwell in front of her, rummaging before she pulls back with something in her hand. She holds it out to him, arm kept steady as she waits for him to inspect it.

It’s a photograph, seemingly taken on film and printed with a glossy (though now scratched) finish. It’s blurred, a muddied green. And though it’s focused on nothing in particular, its hazy, abstract shadows intrigue him nonetheless.

With his eyes back on the road, Link tells Stevie as much.

“Yeah, well, I took it underwater, in a lake,” she says with the same amount of nonchalance as before, settling back into her seat.

“Really?” In his periphery, he can see her peering closely at the photo in her hands. It’s the most animated she’s been during the entire drive so far. “It’s a cool photo.”

“You can have it.”

“No, I couldn’t do that. Thanks though–”

But he watches her reach over the dash anyway, wedging the photograph in the sun visor.

“It’s fine – you need it more than I do.”

He’s not sure what she means, flicking a sideways glance at her, but he doesn’t bother asking. Only two days on the road together, and he already knows better than to press her for more.

 

By the time they watch their third sunset dip below the horizon, still on the road beneath purpling skies, Link’s stomach is rumbling. They’d passed over the state line an hour or so back, and now they’re in New Mexico, fast approaching the final third of their journey. Two more days – tops – and they would be hitting the sandy shores of Santa Monica.

It's all Link can do to keep his embarrassing excitement to himself.

He plans to wing it once they arrive, dropping Stevie off in town before heading out on his own – or, more accurately, he hasn’t really planned at all. His disorganisation is intentional this time, having been one in the past to pore over maps and itineraries and lists. There's a determination that has snuck in there somewhere, a fierce resolve to change his ways – his stagnant, boring ways – and if a little uncertainty is what it takes to inject some spontaneity in his life, so be it.

He can worry about the headache of it all later.

Stevie is snoring softly next to him when they pull into the parking lot of a motel just off the highway. The truck lurches to a creaky stop, jostling her from sleep. Bleary-eyed, she lets out a dramatic yawn as Link twists at the key in the ignition, letting the engine die.

“What time is it?”

“Uh,” he says, peering through the windows surrounding them. Across the road, he spots the neon lights of a bar and grins. “Food time – let’s go.”

Link’s already stepping through the door when Stevie catches up to him. The place is mostly deserted – it’s only a Wednesday after all, and people have places to be – so they easily find a booth near the bar and situate themselves there.

It’s a classic scene: a few pool tables, kitschy truck stop paraphernalia adorning the walls, a roughed-up dart board in the far corner. He hasn’t been inside a proper bar in a while – in years, actually – so it’s like a breath of smoky, stale air just being in a place like this again. He orders a burger and wolfs it down as he watches a couple of burly, bearded men chuckle over the jukebox. Stevie nudges at him once he’s done.

“Hey, let’s get some shots to celebrate.”

“What’re we celebrating?”

There’s a faint smile to her lips as she looks over the bar, a single finger pressing into her bottom lip in contemplation. “Being alive.”

Link snorts and pushes his plate aside. “That’s morbid.”

“Shut up. You like being alive, don’t you?"

“I’m not sure I’ve actually really lived,” spills an unprecedented bout of honesty on Link's part. He blushes at his accidental admission, thankful for the dreary lighting. “Not yet anyway.”

“What does that even mean? Wait,” and she pauses to gasp sarcastically. “Are you a virgin?”

"What? No!"

“Well, then what? ‘You haven’t lived’?”

“Uh,” Link stalls. Honestly, he doesn’t even really know how to answer that question, despite his bringing it upon himself. He knows he’s meant to have done more in his life by now, but _what_ exactly? Aside from Christy, he had a decent job going at the video store, but it was an empty living – even after his promotion to _shift supervisor_ , a glorified version of what he was before – so he didn’t feel bad at all about handing in his resignation letter.

What else could there be to this? He doesn’t like to think of himself as cynical, but isn’t life just going from birth to death in one fell swoop and hoping to have some fun along the way? Maybe that was what his sore excuse of a life was missing – fun.

“Shots,” Link quickly agrees, and Stevie slides out from her side to order them some drinks.

He watches her leave him, intrigued by the saunter in her step she most certainly didn’t have earlier. He isn’t attracted to her – she’s a newly-minted adult after all – but he’s still a red-blooded male, and the sight of her leaning over the counter further than she should have to is something he can’t really overlook. The barman chuckles darkly, fixed to the spot by whatever conversation Stevie seems to be striking up with him. And when she turns back around, there’s a tray of assorted drinks balanced perfectly on her hand. She sets it down on their table.

“Okay, now drink.”

Link is only happy to oblige. Selecting the least-threatening beverage – a shot of dark brown liquid he doesn’t immediately recognise – he knocks it back. And splutters some of it back up again.

“Jesus,” Stevie mutters, as she picks one of the many shots on the tray and takes it with a little more composure. “All right – I get it. I get what you mean.”

“You don’t!” The alcohol is already going to his head – only part of one drink in – and he can tell he’s in that sweet spot where his indignation at anything even vaguely insulting is completely unfounded. He’s already on the defence, even though he knows he doesn’t have to be, and there’s no correcting it now. “I just – I wasn’t happy with her, that’s all.”

“Who’s her?”

“Christy,” and instantly he pictures her sitting in her living room, phone pressed to her ear with one of her many friends, finding out that Link’s skipped town. He wonders who else knows by now, who else is thinking of him for the first time in a while and is making a pointed decision to not care.

“Ex-girlfriend?”

“Yeah – my supposed-to-be, one-day wife. But she dumped me.”

Stevie nods, already moving onto her next drink. “Is that why you left?”

“Yes. No. I mean, it helped me make the decision, I guess.”

“Now _that_ I get.” And Link perks up. “I left because of my shitty, so-called friends. Well, one in particular.”

“What’d they do?”

“Uh…” She takes a drawn-out sip of what looks to be a mix of cola and another dark spirit. “I liked her, and she found out. And she reacted badly.”

“Liked her? As in –“

“Yeah, Link. I’m gay.”

There’s a notable absence of any kind of reaction, probably due to the drink working his system. But he takes the moment to process anyway, tracing a finger over the name of a stranger etched into the table before him, not wanting his next words to offend. Honestly, he’s never cared about that shit, despite the prejudice his hometown is riddled with. But Stevie doesn’t know that, and Link’s pretty sure it’s in his best interests to keep her on his side.

“Cool,” is the smooth response he decides on in the end, and Stevie dissolves into an uncharacteristic fit of giggles. It wasn’t the reaction Link was expecting, but it makes him feel better anyway.

“’Kay, cool.” Her cheeks are a slight tinge of pink when Stevie finally comes back up for air. “Now that that’s out of the way, why are you going to California?”

“I don’t know,” he says, because it’s the truth after all. “Seemed like the opposite of whatever North Carolina was, is. How about you?”

She gulps down what’s left of her current drink before answering. “A friend of mine is getting me a modelling gig. It’s money and something different, and that’s what I need right now.”

“You wanna be a model?”

“What?” She pauses midway reaching for another glass.

“Is that what you want to do? Be a model?”

Her eyes narrow at him in accusation, and he shivers. “I don’t know if you’re trying to be condescending…?”

“I’m not! Hell, no. Just… you don’t seem like the model type.”

She softens at his words ever so slightly, a touch of confusion as her brow wrinkles instead. “That’s, uh. Nobody’s ever said that to me before.”

“Is that weird to you?”

“Uh, yeah – I mean… I’ve always been pretty,” she says not unkindly, as if it’s just a matter of fact. “And people always thought I’d just do something like that. My parents put me in pageants when I was younger, and I was in a couple of store catalogues as a kid. It’s just what I was always meant for.”

“How do you _know_ that?” Link leans forward, letting the chemicals weigh his head down when he rests it on his clasped hands, elbows hard against the table. His second drink is taking over now, and he knows he’s deep in philosophical, therapy-like territory, a place he usually tries to avoid. At this point though, he doesn’t care. “Do you _want_ to be a model? Because, to me, you don’t have what it takes.”

Stevie’s about to interject, but Link hurries to his point before she can.

“Models get bossed around. They get embarrassed and yelled at. But you, you hold your chin up, and you don’t take shit from anybody. As far as I know, when I left you inside back at the gas station, you stomped up to the counter, looked that boy in the eye, and _told_ him you were taking everything in that basket and that he could pay for it out of his own damn pocket.” Link worries that he might’ve overstepped the mark, but Stevie’s quiet grin encourages him to continue. “Look, that photo you gave me is good. Brilliant, even. Have you ever considered being a photographer?”

He watches her digest his words, hoping the instinct he cultivated from what few film classes he took in college isn’t based on utter bullshit. He doesn’t think it is. His teacher always said he had an eye for perspective, for composition and framing.

And if what his teacher said about him is true, Stevie’s photo is _something_.

A comfortable silence falls over them both, and Link busies himself by nursing another drink while watching a small moth flutter in the light overhead. It circles a few times before seeming to get the point, that the light isn’t actually the sun, and it disappears again into the dark that surrounds them.

Stevie has a finger running around the rim of her glass, eyes drawn to her own movement, when Link looks back at her. She seems to sense his gaze.

“You never answered my question,” she murmurs, leaning back into her seat. “Why are you going to California?”

“I told you,” he replies, but he thinks on it anyway. With his brain having to fight through the haze for coherent thought to surface, that old flicker of underwater green registers instead. He swallows with a dry mouth. “I really don’t know.”

Stevie’s sudden shout for more drinks startles him out of his concentration. As the barman gets to work at her request, she raises a near-empty glass into the air and tosses the remnants into the back of her throat.

“Well, I guess we’ll find out then, won’t we?”


	3. Somewhere Along the Line

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. Like I said, I'm clearly really good at this whole updating thing. Almost a whole year. Really bloody good. Hey, we're here now, aren't we?

> **From:** Melinda Finche <mfinche@cityofpaloalto.org>  
>  **To:**  Rhett McLaughlin <rhett.mclaughlin@maedianarchitecture.com>  
>  **Subject:**  Project Proposal - Casterwell Estates
> 
> _Dear Mr McLaughlin,_
> 
> _Thank you for your interest in the development of Casterwell Estates. We regret to inform you that your application as lead architect of this project has been denied._
> 
> _We sincerely appreciate the time you have invested in your application for this role and this project as a whole. While you were unsuccessful this time, we have great admiration for the portfolio you put forth and hope that you will apply for further positions, for which you qualify, with us in the future._
> 
> _Kind regards,_
> 
> _Melinda Finche  
>  City of Palo Alto - Development Services, Building Division_

 

As soon as he steps foot in the office, a loaded hush falls across the room. Gossip travels fast when everyone’s hungry for it, and this firm is no exception. After all, Rhett’s rejection was always going to be a big deal around these parts. And now that it’s actually happened, it’s easily the biggest news they’ve gotten in a while.

It’s difficult to avoid eye contact when they’re all on him, but Rhett manages, ducking and weaving the forced pleasantries until he’s shutting his office door behind him. The room is bathed in golden morning light, and Rhett cringes, squinting into the brightness. He drops his bag into a nearby armchair before rounding the table to tug at the blinds. He’d forgotten to shut them last night, having worked late yet again.

And after waking up to the email he received this morning, he isn’t sure why he bothered.

“Knock, knock?”

Relieved to hear a friendly voice, Rhett slumps into his desk chair and calls for his visitor to enter. He has his head in his hands when he hears the door creak open.

“Man, you all right? You look like crap.”

“Hey, shut the door,” Rhett says, lifting his head to see his friend and colleague Antonio lean in. “We should at least make it a little harder for the entire office to hear us.”

Cracking a chuckle, Antonio does what he’s told and drops down into the chair opposite Rhett. The following silence between them speaks volumes, and Rhett knows instantly what’s happening: Antonio’s reading him, looking for cues to work out how best to approach this.

Honestly, if they didn’t get along so well, Rhett would probably still hate the guy and his perceptive people skills. It was Rhett’s biggest pet peeve when Antonio first started here, his knack for nailing details from mere observation alone. Add to that his impeccable sense of style and his worldly interests, and it was enough to make Rhett’s skin crawl, that this well-dressed hipster of a new guy could waltz in here and start reading him like an open book. It still irks him nowadays, truthfully, but at least now he knows Antonio means no harm by it. It’s his personal way of showing he cares. Which must mean he cares a hell of a lot about Rhett.

When the quiet presses on for longer than he’s comfortable with, Rhett figures it’s up to him to break it. So he draws a long breath and asks, “So everyone knows?”

“Yep.”

“God, even Jessica?”

“Especially Jessica.”

Not the best news. “Is she mad?”

At this, Antonio pauses to stroke over the scruff on his chin. “Look, even she had to know this one was a long shot. It was a long shot from the very beginning.”

“So she’s mad.”

“Yep.”

Rhett lets out a groan, shoving back hard into his chair. “You know I was up all night preparing for the preliminary builds. I just, _fuck_ – I know the odds were tough. Still, I was so sure we had this in the bag.”

“Dude, nobody asked you to stay back late. That was all you. Didn’t your mama teach you not to count your chickens before they’re born?”

“Before they hatch.”

Antonio throws a scoff back at him, cracking his knuckles. “Whatever, man, this is exactly what I’m talking about. I care about you, and I’m all about what you’re about. But you gotta stop thinking like you always know best. Sometimes you don’t.”

Rhett shrugs. He does have this tendency to boast superiority when he’s under pressure. It’s the way he’s programmed, forever barrelling ahead without mapping out a game plan first. But he’s not about to give Antonio the satisfaction of being right. “What? There are times when I don’t know best? Like when I set you up with Sierra from HR? Did I make a mistake with that?”

The mood shifts just like that, and Antonio chuckles again, a jovial glint in his eye. “Dude, that whole thing’s gonna end up blowing up in my face one day, just you wait. She’s from _Human Resources_.”

Rhett grins at him. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“We’re good, man. She’s real good. But this ain’t about her or me today.” And they’re right back to business again. Rhett drops the smile and sighs, rubbing his temples as Antonio gets to his feet. “Look, we all know how hard you worked on this. We all saw the folio you put together, we all know the shit you had to go through to even just get the opportunity. It’ll take some time, but ultimately, nobody’s gonna hold this against you. Not even Jessica.”

“Yeah, okay,” Rhett says, eyeing the bold pattern on Antonio’s tie. It takes him some effort to suppress the urge to mock his friend’s choice of outfit, no matter how stylish he knows it is. That’d certainly be a lot easier than facing this nightmare head-on. “But how do I move on from this?”

Antonio’s hand is already on the door when he gives Rhett his answer. “I can’t tell you that. Just take your time. You’re good, man. You’ll work it out.”

 

* * *

 

Nobody says anything when Rhett slips out just midway through the afternoon, his bag slung across his shoulder. Nobody, not even Jessica, whose eyes he could feel boring into him until he disappeared into the elevator.

No work can be done on a day like today, not with him in such a pitiful mood. Antonio was right: nobody asked him to work late last night. No one ever really pushes him to do anything. They trust him with the work because – usually – Rhett gets results. He’s one of the more successful, if not _the_ most successful architect at Maedian Architecture.

That doesn’t mean he wouldn’t have appreciated the help. To be fair, he could’ve asked for it at any point in the process. But by the same logic, someone could’ve offered. He can’t blame Antonio – the guy has his own accounts, his own concerns to deal with. But the rest of the office? They had no excuse… except for maybe that superiority complex of his again, driving his colleagues away with what probably would’ve been useful input. Now that he thinks about it, that was likely his downfall, the lack of collaboration, the perspective from another to really iron out the kinks. He’d taken notes from Jessica, sure, but hers were a given. She was his boss. She had a hand in everything.

Upon reflection, he’d been single-minded to the point of irresponsibility, of recklessness. What if he _is_ losing his edge? He’s been at this for nearly ten years now after all, top of his game for the majority of his career. It’s a classic tale: the college hot shot, hired straight after graduation, peaking way too soon before a swift yet painful corporate death.

Maybe _that’s_ what’s happening to him. Or maybe he needs to stop thinking about it altogether. Maybe he just needs a break.

Foregoing the public transport, Rhett decides to take his time getting home tonight. The longer he can put off reality, the better. He pulls his jacket off, tucks it into his shoulder bag, and sets off, eventually turning from his usual route to cut through the park.

It’s busier than he imagined it’d be during the middle of the day, parents and school-children, joggers and dog-walkers, older men stoically playing chess. Rhett chuckles at the mental image of himself as one of them, an old man with peppering wild hair on his head, maybe a walking stick to lean his fragile back over, whiling the day away at a public chess table with no place else better to be. He always liked the idea of retirement, filling his schedule with hobbies instead of endless work.

Eager to put some distance between him and the office, Rhett keeps up the pace, finding comfort in the rhythmic pounding of his shoes against the pavement. His legs are beginning to protest under his quicker-than-usual stride, but it feels good to get his blood pumping again. He hasn’t been regularly active for years. That’s probably something he can afford to change. He makes a mental note for later.

The other end of the park is only just coming into sight when Rhett spots a fitness group sprawled out across the lawn. They seem to be taking a break, chatting among themselves as they sit on their yoga mats or stretch out their limbs. Rhett pauses and steps from the path to watch, as a woman parts from the mingling crowd and takes her place at the front, facing them. From where he stands, Rhett can barely hear what she’s saying, but he can decipher her soothing tone through the bustle around him. He lets her smooth vocals calm him, doing his breathing exercises to the pleasant sound of it, the cool breeze filling his lungs. Once she’s given out her next instructions, she demonstrates a pose – this must be a yoga class, Rhett realises, or maybe Pilates – before gesturing for everyone else to do the same. As she’s pacing through the rows to inspect her students, her head turns to catch him staring.

Her attention snaps him out of it, and suddenly Rhett’s shaking his head when she motions for him to join them. He takes the opportunity then to retreat, face hot when he gets back on the footpath, quickly finding his faster pace from earlier. Careful to keep his face forward, he makes a beeline for the park gates, headed for home.

 

* * *

 

Having made two more unnecessary detours to the grocery store and the library, a place he hasn’t visited in years, Rhett finally walks into his building as the sun is setting. He goes straight past the elevator, inspired by his fruitful walk today, and instead trudges up the three flights of stairs to his apartment. He narrowly misses what would have been a lengthy conversation with his elderly next-door neighbour, nearly bumping into her as she’s about to hobble into the elevator, and deftly unlocks his door before stepping inside to safety.

He isn’t expecting to find the hallway light switched on or the TV blaring some trashy reality show in the living room. He didn’t think tonight was one of their nights. It must be, because she’s here, and she must be here because, well.

Prolonging the inevitable, Rhett sets his keys down and hangs his jacket and bag up on their respective hooks. At a loss of anything better to do, he opts to check himself in the mirror. He looks a little better than he thought he would after his walk, though his hair is in need of a fix. Dragging his fingers through it, he pushes it back across his scalp, making sure it’s sitting tamed before he lets it be.

For his effort, he wasted all of a precious two minutes idling by his front door. Enough’s enough, he decides, so sheepishly he walks the length of the hall and immediately spots her lounging on the couch, feet up on the ottoman. She switches the TV off as soon as she sees him.

“Where the hell have you been?”

His eyes skim over the shiny smoothness of her bare legs, trailing upwards to the bright, dangerous red of her lingerie. Her fingers drum impatiently against her thigh.

“I walked home, Jessica.”

The flash of confusion on her face isn’t lost on him. “Walked home? Are you kidding? Why would you do that?”

“I needed some fresh air.” He’s all too aware of the fact that he hasn’t moved an inch since he entered the room. He’s sure Jessica is having the same thought as well.

“Well, you had two hours more of it than you should have.” She unfolds her legs where they’re crossed at her ankles and sits up, giving him full view of her lacy brassiere. “Who said you could leave early today?”

“Nobody.”

“I’m sorry,” she retorts, an unimpressed look on her face. Her movements are graceful and deliberate, even moreso against the ferocity of her tone, when she stands from the couch to approach him. “Who said?”

“Not you.”

“That’s right, Rhett. Not me.” She barely comes up to his shoulders, her frame absolutely tiny compared to his – but the dark look in her eyes makes him take a step backward. “I’m _your_ boss. You do as _I_ say. And I say you’re to be punished tonight.”

He barely remembers how exactly this affair started. All he knows is they were working together late one night on one of the very first accounts he’d ever landed, she’d just broken up with her boyfriend, and he was dumb enough to fall for her tears. Next thing he knew, he was fucking his boss on the regular behind everyone’s backs. Not even Antonio knew – and he never would. Rhett could barely admit it to himself, let alone to his best friend.

“In fact, that wasn’t the only bad thing you did today, was it?” This is it, exactly the conversation Rhett wanted to avoid. “Something about Casterwell?”

“I know, I’m so sorry,” he blurts before she can properly lay into him. “I don’t know how it happened, or how to make it up to you. Please don’t –”

“Shut up, Rhett. You can start making it up to me right now.”

“Seriously, Jess, I’m really –”

“I said,” she spits, covering his mouth with her slender hand. “Shut the fuck up.”

Her fingers wind their way into his hair to pull him forward suddenly, meshing his mouth to hers. If this is his punishment, if this is his only penance, he’ll gladly take it.

He’s putty in her hands when she kisses him like this, like wildfire, sparks catching and spreading feverish heat through his whole body. He truly believes Jessica would’ve been _the one_ in another life, if she weren’t his demanding bitch of a boss. If not for that, she’d be just his type: fiery and smart, refusing to take any of his shit. She’s every bit the kind of woman he needs.

It still amazes him that she wants him, too.

He’s certain of this because, once they make it into the bedroom, that cocksure bravado of hers all but vanishes. Suddenly, _she’s_ the one desperate for his touch, it’s her hands trembling as they unbutton his shirt, her lipstick leaving ruby red smudge marks on his collarbones, her fingertips trailing down his torso as they make their way to his zipper.

But before she goes any further, she shoves him back onto the mattress and lunges to straddle his hips, a last-ditch grab for control. “You’re not to move, understood?”

God, he borderline hates her. But, “Yes,” he breathes anyway, because he loves _this_ , and he bites back a groan at the feeling of her torso sliding down the length of his. There’s a faintest whisper of regret when he remembers again that she’s his employer – that _this_ was the way the universe decided to bring them together – but before it can really take hold, it’s smothered under a swipe of her tongue on his thigh.

How could he complain though? Their arrangement is perfect: Jessica taking what she needs from him, flitting in and out of here whenever she likes, leaving him the freedom to live his life however he wants. That’s every man’s dream, isn’t it?

Then her lips touch him again, and he can’t possibly imagine an answer other than _yes, of course it is_.

 

 

The morning arrives again far too soon. His phone alarm blares, and he switches it off like a reflex, woken just enough to register the touch of soft skin under his palm.

He jumps at the sound of another’s groan, his reaction pulling her from sleep. With dark hair splayed wildly across his pillow, Jessica turns her head to look at him. “Good morning, sleepy.”

“Morning,” he mumbles, too drowsy to be impolite, awake just enough to feel a certain awkwardness settle over him. “You’re still here. You don’t usually sleep over.”

“Well, you decided to push our schedule back two hours yesterday by _walking home_.” She turns then to face him entirely, and he’s hyper aware of the fact his arm is still very much resting around her middle. Aside from that, she must’ve gotten up in the middle of the night to remove her make-up because she looks different now – more beautiful, he thinks, and far less threatening.

He’s getting distracted. “But shouldn’t you be at work right now?”

“Why? I’m the boss, I told you. I can do what I want.” To illustrate her point, she snuggles into his chest, and it’s all Rhett can do to recoil from this unsolicited display of affection. “Besides, why would I go in when I can spend all day in bed with a gorgeous man instead?”

Ignoring the compliment, he manages to untangle himself from Jessica’s hold and swings his legs over the side of the bed. He’s still naked – and from the glimpse he catches, so is she – but without the lust to fuel him, this is anything but sexy. He reaches for the pair of boxer-briefs by his bed.

“Don’t tell me you’re going in,” she says, sounding amused behind him. “Oh, don’t go into work, Rhett. Don’t leave me here all alone.” He wouldn’t dream of it. When he chances a look back at her, Jessica has a hand extended toward him, pulling the sheets to her when he doesn’t take it. She stops short, her bare breasts not quite covered at all. It takes every fibre of Rhett’s being not to flee the room.

So he decides to focus on something else – because if he engages, he’s going to snap. The twinge in his back, for instance, is less prominent than it usually is after one of their nights together. But he moves for the floor anyway to begin his stretching routine, despite the unwelcome audience.

“What would you even do today anyway?” Jessica continues, oblivious to his ignoring her. “Lose us another account?”

And despite his best efforts, that snaps his attention right up again. He has a right mind to kick her out, to tell her this is over, consequences be damned – but fate has other plans, and his flare of anger quickly turns into a wild spasm in the small of his back, bringing him crashing straight back down onto the bed.

“Rhett, shit!” Jessica is right up and at his side in a blink, her hands flitting about in search of something to do as he stiffens himself. “Are you okay?”

He’s used to this. A couple of deep breaths, keeping still for a moment, letting his mind focus on anything but the pain, and it’s all over. But the sight of his boss, bearing too much skin for him to be comfortable with and insulting him in his own goddamn home, is just what he _doesn’t_ need right now.

To make matters worse, Jessica adjusts her balance and manages to dip the mattress, thus jostling his spine as well. He gasps at the shock of white-hot pain, and her eyes widen in panic. “The kitchen,” Rhett manages through clenched teeth. “My pills are in the kitchen, please.”

Miraculously, she goes without another word, sent on a scavenger hunt for painkillers that don’t quite exist, leaving Rhett to wonder how on Earth he came to end up here in the first place.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are this fic's life-blood. Actually, no. That's a lie. Its life-blood is me wanting to continue the story. But I'll appreciate the feedback anyway. 
> 
> Thanks for reading! <3


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